the books can't speak
by thediadem
Summary: The books can't speak, but if they could, they'd have a new story to tell. Clara finds the library in the TARDIS and looks around.


A/N: Written before JTtCotT aired. Inspired by the images of Clara in the TARDIS library the BBC released for last Saturday's episode, Journey to the Centre of the TARDIS. Slightly smutty, but not too much detail-and my first time writing anything remotely smutty for the DW fandom, so I hope you enjoy.

* * *

A nightmare rouses her from sleep; or maybe it's a jolt the TARDIS makes as the Doctor pilots her through the time vortex. Either way, Clara is awake, slightly shaky, and finding herself thankful for the bumpy ride the TARDIS usually provides.

She sits up in her white, ornamental daybed and looks around her room, orienting herself as she wakes; it has a map of the world pinned to the wall (whenever she leaves the room, she finds the map on the floor when she returns). She's started adding postcards from the planets she and the Doctor have visited. With the Doctor's obsession with little shops, she's always been able to find a postcard of the place (on trips where they encounter no trouble, at least). The bedside table has a vase stuck to the top of it, always filled with flowers (she has a sneaking suspicion they're provided by the Doctor-there's no way the TARDIS would ever give her flowers). A bookshelf sits on the other side of the room, holding guidebooks to countries like Spain and America and her book of _101 Places to See_. On the top shelf is the picture the Doctor took of himself with Hila Tacorien at Caliburn House. She snorts at his ridiculous expression and stands, making her way out of her room and down the corridor, hopefully towards the console room.

The corridor darkens as she walks out into it. "Oh, I thought we were done with this," she hisses under her breath, and the lights flicker once in response. "_Fine._ Be that way." Clara places her hand along the wall and feels her way along; when her hand touches nothing, she steps slowly towards the empty space.

The lights in the corridor flicker back on as she enters the room, and the light that filters in shows her that she's in a large room lined with bookshelves and sconces, with a table towards the back and windows (_Windows?_ she thinks; _It must be a projection._) that show a beautiful landscape of twin galaxies. She reaches up and touches a sconce; it lights up immediately and starts a chain reaction around the other sconces, giving the library a warm orange glow that makes the large space seem more cozy.

"It's beautiful," she breathes, and if she isn't mistaken, she _feels_ a hum as she runs her fingertips along the shelves. Stubborn as she is, the TARDIS seems to accept Clara's praise. "See? I'm not _all_ bad!" She stumbles as the TARDIS jolts suddenly. "I'm never complimenting you again if you're just going to be mean."

It really is a beautiful room, though, she thinks, admiring the worn-looking books and the intricate carvings in the wood. It's in the same strange circular pattern that covers the time rotor in the console room, and she can't help but admire how unique the circles and lines connect together to form a beautiful picture. Her finger follows the lines of one, spiraling around the outside and around a smaller circle on the outer loop, which links to another circle in the middle with a line.

"It's Gallifreyan," a warm, low voice by her ear says, startling her out of her thoughts and making her flinch.

"Oh my stars!" she gasps, spinning around to find the Doctor rather close to her, looking-not at her-but at the carvings on the wood. She places her hands on his chest and gives him a light push. "Don't you know not to sneak up on a girl? _Especially_ when we've dealt with ghosts only this week!"

"Sorry," he replies cheekily, and she can tell he's not even the least bit sorry, not by the way his eyes have moved from the shelves to her face.

"What's Gallifreyan?" she says, turning back around to look at the designs once more.

"The language of the Time Lords," he replies, and he traces a circle. "This carving tells about the history of Kasterborous, where Gallifrey was born. My planet. My people. It's not entirely accurate-it's missing a few points-but it's got the general gist of the story."

"You're telling me all these lines and circles is a _language_?" she sounds incredulous, and she is; it's hard to believe that such a beautiful drawing could form a story. To her, her stories had always been painted with words, black ink scattered across a white page-not the other way around. Though, if she was fair, these _were_ words, painting a story-just one she couldn't understand. "It's not translating."

"The TARDIS doesn't translate Gallifreyan. Can't give away all my secrets, now, can I?" he says, and taps her on the nose with the finger he had been tracing the circles with.

She swats his hand away and walks off to another bookshelf, a haste to her step that she is not completely sure isn't spurred by the stirring in the pit of her stomach, brought on by the proximity of the Doctor and the way his eyes had been on her. She is sure it is nothing more than innocent-but something about the way he studies her is unsettling-and if she is honest with herself, it's not in a bad way.

Her finger lands on a book that sticks out from the others; it looks well-worn compared to some of the books that occupy the shelves. "Is this a favorite read?" she asks, tilting her head to read the title better. "_Melody Malone_?"

A sharp gasp from behind her almost sounds pained; she turns around in time to see him composing his face into an expression that _doesn't_ show pain that seems as if he is being stabbed by a million needles, but she catches just a hint of it. "No. A memory," he says, and the tone of his voice resonates with such finality that she doesn't press any further.

Her fingers press the spine in, lining the book up with the rest of its shelf mates; she doesn't know why, since her curiosity is needling at her to look at it. Perhaps it is to make it less easy for him to be reminded of the pain the book brings with it, a need to protect him from the things that remind him of love, loss, and defeat. She doesn't know what lies within the pages-maybe someday, she will even read it-but for now, she respects his wishes and changes the subject, crossing back over to him and taking his hand. It accompanies a slight tug as she pulls him to the other side of the room, where a great tapestry is strung up. It is embroidered with the circles and lines-_Gallifreyan_, she corrects herself-as an overlay on a landscape of a lake, surrounded by snow-capped mountains and an orange sky. "What's this?"

"Lake Abydos," he replies, reaching a hand up to touch-no, caress, she thinks-the canvas. "With the Neverending Mountains of Solace and Solitude on the horizon."

She looks up at him, the corner of her mouth quirking up in a half-smile. "You Time Lords certainly know how to name things, don't ya?"

He doesn't take his eyes from the canvas. "If Gallifrey wasn't time-locked, I'd show it to you in person," he says, his fingers sliding across the peaks of the mountains. "The Shining World of the Seven Systems. The mountains would glow when the sun to the south rose every morning. I think you'd like it." He looks away from the canvas and down at Clara, an unreadable expression on his face.

"It sounds lovely," she says, and lifts her hand to touch his cheek lightly. "Maybe one day." The phrase 'time-locked' sounds very finite to her, though she cannot keep herself from saying it.

"No." The reply is sharp, and she pulls her hand back with a jolt; her heart begins to pound in her chest and she looks away.

"Right." She turns and abruptly begins to cross the room, embarrassment and adrenaline pumping through her veins to help her continue taking one step after another. "Sometimes I don't know why you've even brought me along if all you're going to do is push me away," her words stumble out quickly, hurt lacing her tone. It's irrational, she knows-especially after he has just spoken with her of Gallifrey-but she can't help it.

He jumps into movement, his legs taking him halfway across the room before she can get to the door. "Clara," he says, catching her wrist just before she reaches the door. "I'm sorry."

She turns around, her eyes bright from unshed tears. "_No_," she snaps. "You can't just apologize and make everything okay again. It doesn't work like that, Doctor."

That's what she _would_ have said, had she not been taken aback by the almost rough grasp on her upper arms, pulling her up onto her tiptoes. She makes it halfway through the word 'everything' before she feels the collision of his lips against hers, her eyes snapping shut abruptly. Her hands can't seem to find a place to rest for a moment, flitting from his shoulders to his chest, where she can feel the rapid double-heartbeat beneath the vest he wears. It clears her head momentarily, long enough for her to push him away.

He looks stunned as he stumbles backward, making an effort not to fall over backwards as his hand grabs onto a bookshelf. "I'm sorry," he repeats, his face flushed and his hair falling into his eyes.

"No," she says, and the look on her face makes his hearts simultaneously leap into his throat and drop into his stomach. The space between them closes again, and she tangles her fingers in his hair, pulling him down to kiss him again, anger and hurt and pent-up tension that had been building for weeks finally, finally coming out. The kiss deepens almost instantly, her tongue sliding along his bottom lip; she feels him tilting her head back with his fingers threaded through _her_ hair at the back of her neck. He grazes his teeth along her bottom lip, running his tongue over it to soothe any pain it might've caused-but he can tell by the hitch to her breath that it hadn't pained her. His hands find their way to her waist and he lifts her up to sit on a part of the shelves that juts out.

Her nightgown rides up ever so slightly, showing more leg than she normally feels is prudent; she finds that she doesn't really care, not with the way that his lips are now trailing down her jawline or the way he tugs at her earlobe with his teeth and any question she ever had about Time Lords being so unlike humans is gone from her mind. Her hands slide down his chest and unbutton the vest he wears, and she feels his pocket watch bounce off the back of her hand as she pulls the fabric apart. Her fingers move deftly up and begin to undo his bowtie, though she fumbles; his hands have now found her legs and she gasps at the warmth of his grasp, the way they make their way up the outer sides of her legs, almost dancing beneath the hem of her nightgown. The bowtie finally unravels and her small fingers go to work on the buttons of his inner shirt, fingertips grazing his collarbone as button by button slowly come undone.

Truth be told, she can't romanticize it in her head; it's a bit rough, and somewhat uncomfortable, with the spine of a book digging into the soft spot just below her shoulder blade. She arches her back in an effort to relieve the pressure, her legs lifting as she does. She realizes that the Doctor's hips lie between the span of her lower thighs, and her heart is suddenly beating in her throat. "Doctor," she whispers, and he can feel it in his stomach. Their pace quickens and she is pulling at the braces, sliding them off his shoulders and fumbling with the button of his trousers and the fabric within. She can feel him tugging upwards on the fabric of her nightgown, feel his hands pulling at the fabric of her knickers, and faster than he kissed her, faster than she kissed him, she lets out a soft groan as he enters her, her lips poised by his ear and his face buried in her neck. It's not beautiful, but it fits, somehow. The pain of years of loss and defeat the both of them know seem to resonate between them, with every little gasp of his name that slides past her lips and each thrust he makes spurred on by the sound of his name on her lips.

It doesn't take long, either; the quick, frenzied movements form a rhythm, her hips rolling into his as he crashes into hers. She has a feeling that there will be bruises on the inside of her thighs tomorrow, but she can't bring herself to care about it as the warmth between her legs builds. Involuntarily, her back arches and she wraps her legs around his hips, her hands grasping the ledge of the surface as the climax washes over her, a sound like a sob escaping from her. She feels him roll his hips two, maybe three more times, before she feels another, new warmth within her, and in the back of her mind she's thanking herself two mornings ago when she remembered to pick up her monthly supply of pills from the chemist.

Their disentanglement is a little awkward, but she closes her eyes as she pulls her nightgown down and her knickers back up to give him a bit of privacy. She opens her eyes a moment later, looking at the Doctor (who is now buttoning his shirt), a new vulnerability to both of their glances as her eyes search his face and his roam hers. "So why were you in the library?" he asks softly.

"I had a bad dream," she admits, her cheeks turning pink, and she curses herself for blushing now, of all times. "I was in this great metal suit of armor and I couldn't feel anything."

It's like she sees his eyes darken. "That's not going to happen," he says, with the same finality he had spoken to her with only minutes ago, but now there's something more to it-a protectiveness. She can't say that she minds it.

"No, I don't suppose it will," she replies, raising her eyebrows. "I'm more likely to be murdered by the TARDIS first." She cracks a grin at him.

He returns the grin and helps her down from her perch. "She's seen worse."


End file.
